


So madly jealous

by Sindefara



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Imaginary incest, Jealousy, Light BDSM, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 10:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14423931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindefara/pseuds/Sindefara
Summary: Fingon has to be inventive to cure Maedhros of his jealousy)





	So madly jealous

**Author's Note:**

> It was published in Russian as "Сумасшедшая ревность" https://ficbook.net/readfic/5192038  
> The incest is only imaginary, of course.

Maedhros took off his glove and shook Fingon's hand, saying good-bye. Fingon did not take his gloves off - it was very cold. Fingon’s fingers closed around his left palm squeezing it hard and then, as always, Fingon recoiled, as if pushing him away.  
Fingon pushed him from one precipice inside his soul to another, in an abyss where the flame burning inside him did not just fill his eyes with smoke - it charred everything inside.  
Yes, they were together more than once during these weeks - they were alone; kissing, words of love, intimacy. A tiny room in which a small stove burned hotly. Sometimes Fingon in his sleep threw off the blanket, spreading his beautiful white legs with narrow feet or tossed aside a damp lock of hair from his brow. He was not aware that his lover did not sleep at that moment - and Maedhros was not only awake – he was trembling, looking at the body, that belonged to him a few hours ago, looking for traces of other men’s hands and lips.  
Maedhros knew that he had no right to it; they were not married, they could not be a couple, they could not live together. Inside his mind, he knew that he was sincerely loved. He knew that Fingon had given him all of himself - without conditions, without asking anything in return, that he always came to him at the first hint, at the first request. He will never love someone else.  
Still… Fingon is always so kind, so friendly with everyone. Perhaps, out of the goodness of his heart, he may agree to appease someone’s hopeless thirst. Perhaps Fingon is ready just to have fun and please his gorgeous body when he had an opportunity.  
Only yesterday, he looked at the stately outlines of Fingon’s sides, hips, shoulders - and realized that, being here, visiting Fingon and his father Fingolfin, he always thought - "here he could be kissed by someone else".  
Maedhros looks at the yellow-gray towers of the royal palace, at twisted iron lanterns, at lacy iron bars behind which the flame of candles is burning - and inside him burning flames flash in his brain.

He sees Fingolfin: he, in his formal attire, knelt by the moat, among the reeds, under a high willow, where the pink water lilies are shamelessly lying on the water. On the King’s face, Maedhros sees a kind, childish, enthusiastic expression: he feeds ducks with pie-crusts from the castle kitchen.  
Fingolfin, who lost his daughter and younger son, who had to part with his other son, Turgon.  
Maedhros imagines a cold night in his chambers.  
Now, in his imagination, in a hallway, Fingolfin takes his eldest son by the elbows and whispers to him:  
"I am hungry. I cannot stand it any longer. I've been alone for so long on my conjugal bed. I'm cold, my child. My heart and my thighs are cold, my seed, which conceived you, is drying out. I do not want to live anymore. I need your warmth and your tenderness. If you turn me down, I'll throw myself off this tower. I often come here, my child, and many times I’ve stood on the edge".  
"You have my consent", says Fingon. "My body is ready to serve you. It's my filial duty".  
Fingolfin grasps him, roughly presses him against the wall, untying his son’s pants. He wants to penetrate him here and now. Maedhros can almost hear Fingon's muffled moan.  
"Father, please," begs Fingon. “Father, wait. There will be bruises. And this way ... it will not work. Come on, I'll help you. Not here…"  
Fingolfin comes to his son’s bedroom. Maedhros was there only a couple of times. Blue, heavy curtains on the windows; embroidered blue canopy, delicate white bedspreads, plump cushions with monograms of father and son. It's dark in the room. Coal is burning in the copper hot water bottle at the foot of the bed. Fingon undresses; he lies on the bed obediently, closing his eyes.  
Fingolfin lies down next to him. Maedhros knows how kind his uncle is; knows how he always asks for forgiveness even a kitchen skivvy if he accidentally pushes him or her or breaks a plate - Fingolfin is sometimes awkward. Now he imagines another Fingolfin – cruel and heartless to his own son.  
“Give me a hug. Kiss me. Now here”, he orders.  
Fingon obediently sits down on his lap, hugs him with his feet and hands, kisses, and gently caresses his back and chest. The father puts it on the bed; Maitimo sees how Fingon purses his lips, how his wet eyelashes tremble: Fingon does not want to show that it hurts.  
At last, Fingolfin leaves: Fingon sits down and groans in pain. Only now, he begins to plait his tight tresses.

And what about Fingon’s companions, the young archers? They are so beautiful, graceful, and so faithful to their lord.  
Maedhros imagined many times Fingon going with them to hunt.  
They stop by a wide, lazy, shallow and warm river. Those three are laying away their clothes in the gentle summer wind. Will Findecáno condescend to them, his vassals? No, he only observes their play. They know that he likes it. They choose one of them - he will satisfy the other two – choose the one who looks most like him, Fingon, who has the same long black braids and a blue tunic embroidered with silver. It takes long; evening approaches, the sun floods the river with a golden veil. The third one approaches his lord: bruises and scratches cover him, his silky smooth hair here and there are wet and sticky. He looks at Fingon lovingly: does he want it now? Yes, now, probably, he does.

At dinner, Maedhros pushes this young man so that he drops the fork, and, to his own surprise, takes the last piece of roast from under his nose, although Maedhros is not hungry at all. Fingolfin looks at him with a smile – «of course, we have something to feed the hungry guest”. The young man also manages to produce a forced smile. Maedhros stares at the other two. Of course, they do not suspect that they are to blame for the crime, which was committed only in the imagination of Maedhros. They probably attribute this to the quick-tempered nature of a Fëanor’s son.  
Now he can at least look at Fingon. Touch his hand. At night, in the trembling light of a candle or a fireplace he can look again on his hands, on his chest - make sure that no one touched him, did not hold, did not kiss him; he looks until he is demented.  
When he leaves Fingon, the fire of jealousy will burn irresistibly, fading and then flaring up – because of accidental words, memories, letters. And he will reread Fingon’s letters not for the kind words - there is always so much tenderness and love in his letters! – he will search for mentions of conversations with others. 

"Hi!.."  
Maedhros rode five or six miles already, lost in thought, losing time - and suddenly his hand was touched by the smaller gloved hand - Fingon's.  
“Maitimo! Are not you happy to see me?”  
“I'm very glad," Maedhros answered in bewilderment. "You... you forgot to tell me something?"  
"You could say that," answered Fingon. "I want to talk to you. Do you have time? Does it matter that... In a word, do you have time until tomorrow?”  
"Yes," answered Maedhros. “Of course”.  
"Let's go," Fingon tugged at Maedhros’s saddle with a mischievous smile.  
Fingon led him to a small house - either a warehouse or a hayloft; they went up to the second floor. Fingon locked the front door and the door to the room - large, with a low ceiling and narrow windows under the roof; there was an oven and a large bed.  
"I'm sorry," said Fingon. “I am being very stupid. But I do not know what to do! I feel that it's hard for you to be there – feel that you restrain your anger, your desire, your sadness”.  
"You know," Maedhros answered, "I'm afraid of losing you."  
"Do not be afraid." Fingon smiled at him, and he felt very hot in his stomach and chest, "do not be afraid. Do you want not to be afraid at all, Maitimo?”  
Maedhros layed off his heavy winter cloak, put down his whip, its handle decorated with ruby, which he still held in his hands.  
"How could he comfort me ... Nothing could" Maedhros thought bitterly.  
"I'll behave even more stupid now," said Fingon. "Only do not be angry."  
And he threw off his outer garments, leaving on only a transparent linen shirt; Then he went up to Maedhros and took the shirt off.  
“I want to give myself to you. Now”.  
"Thank you." Maedhros squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I love you so much. It’s so hard to be apart. Thank you for giving me another day”.  
He felt ready to burst into tears, but Fingon's next words made him stiff with amazement.  
"I want to give myself to you, absolutely; I want... you know, I want you to do everything you want with me until morning. Absolutely everything, everything that comes to your mind. I will not object, I will not deny you anything; I will fulfill all your wishes. You can say anything to me, - I will not remember a word about it, as if nothing of this ever happened. You can do anything - tomorrow I will forget it all. Anything. Do you want it?.. Please, Maitimo!”  
Maedhros stared intently into his transparent gray eyes.  
"I love you insanely," he said. “Madly”.  
"I'll stand it somehow," said Fingon. "Just imagine that you've already left, that I'm your dream, I'm not here and you can not offend me and quarrel with me. As if the real "I" will never know what happened here. I am yours».  
"Yes," Maedhros says.  
He passes his hand along his back, buttocks, presses Fingon against himself, kisses his nipples and collarbones - and now he is indeed mad.  
Maedhros covers his whole body with kisses, fiercer and fiercer; on the shoulders and hips there are traces of teeth. He is happy – this is the lowest kind of happiness, most animal one: seeing these marks, anyone will understand - Finno, his Finno is taken. Finno belongs only to him. He kisses the abdomen, goes lower. He knows - Fingon does not like what he will do right now. He even wanted to break up with Maedhros once when he indulged himself to it. Now he will caress him with his tongue and lips, now he will delight in this. Sometimes he wishes the pleasure to be so strong that it may exhaust Fingon, make him plunge into a happy, dull satisfaction for a couple of days, so that he would be not able to want anything ...  
Finno groaned; his lover squeezed his thighs, hurting him with his nails, not letting him go until it was all over. Maedhros put his head on his lover’s wet thigh; Fingon tenderly ran his fingers through Maedhros’s thick red hair, letting him know: “it's all right, I'm not angry”.  
Maedhros stared at him with devotion; he was all dizzy. He could only think about how kind Fingon was to him, how he let his lover do something that he himself did not like too much. He felt happy and unbearably guilty, and now he could ask for what he always wanted:  
"Hit me, please."  
Fingon raised his eyebrows questioningly.  
Maedhros took off his silk shirt, shirt, untied and lowered his pants - did not take it off altogether, so he felt even more submissive and helpless and gave Fingon his whip.  
"Hit me." He ran his hand over his shoulders and chest. “Hit me”.  
After the blow, he experienced a burning pain; on the skin, there were pink marks left by the whip. Maedhros knew that it could hurt Finno himself – to beat the one whom he loved so tenderly and gently; to beat him when he is so helpless and naked; finally, to beat a cripple, whom he himself maimed. Fingon hid this feeling deeply, but Maedhros knew that it was unbearable for him to inflict physical harm or pain on anyone including an enemy. That is why he preferred to shoot a bow, not because of his small height and fragile build. Fingon could easily wield a two-handed sword, a heavy halberd, - but to cut off someone's hand, cut through the flesh and bones... Maedhros could not even imagine what Fingon must have felt when he chopped off his hand to save him from captivity.  
Fingon stopped, panting. Maedhros bent his head to the floor and exposed his back, begging him to continue. The pain was a purifying, almost a sweet feeling.

*** 

He woke up; the sun was already high. He woke up exhausted, tired, his whole body ached after the lashing, but he felt so happily drained, so pleased, and in his soul and body there was such a serene blankness - that he preferred not to think about anything now. Perhaps later he will be ashamed of himself, for what he did - but not today... not now.  
Maedhros opened his eyes. He saw the locks of his own red hair on a pillow, and the sun that glimmered on them. He shook his head. Fingon smiled at him and asked:  
“Are you hungry?”  
“Yes”, he answered.  
Fingon placed a plate before him; the food smelled of pepper, game and some spicy herbs.  
“Help yourself”, said Fingon, and looked at him lovingly. He wore cozy homespun clothes - a white shirt with a collar embroidered with naive cross-stitches and a warm waistcoat with a fur trim that he tied with a belt with funny bells on the ends.  
Maedhros did not want to break their agreement to remain silent about what had happened. He raised himself on his elbow, took a spoon - and blurted out:  
"At least ... at least three times ... you had _that ”._  
Maedhros did not know any decent words for this, and he simply could not make himself utter indecent words in relation to _him ._  
Fingon silently kissed his forehead.  
"Well, let's say, not three times, but four," he thought, but of course he did not say anything aloud.  
After all, it's just _outrageous_ to enjoy oneself when you’re lashing someone!..


End file.
